


Love is in the Stars

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-31
Updated: 2000-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:39:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Love is in the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Love is in the Stars by Viking Lass

_Love is in the Stars_

By Jen Erickson aka Viking Lass 

Disclaimer: The characters of Methos and Cassandra belong to Panzer/Davis and Rhyser and Gaumont. The song lyrics belong to Third Eye Blind. Both are used without permission, but with love and respect. 

Author's note: Tons of thanks to Tanja Kinkel who told me to write the story that I wanted and who answers every HL question I can think of. Thanks to Katie Heasley who beta read it wonderfully. Much love to my awesome boyfriend who helped me write it and endures me rambling on and on about Methos and Cassie. The song lyrics come first so you can keep them in mind. Two line-breaks to indicate time change; one line-break to indicate point-of-view change. Hope everyone enjoys; comments can come to [email redacted by archivist] 

* * *

"Jumper" by Third Eye Blind 

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend   
You could cut ties with all the lies that you've been livin in   
And if you do not want to see me again   
I would understand   
The angry boy a bit too insane, icing over a secret pain   
You know you don't belong   
You're the first to first,   
You're way too loud   
You're the flash of light on a burial shroud   
I know something's wrong   
Well everyone I know has got a reason to say   
Put the past away   
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend   
You could cut ties with all the lies that you've been livin in   
And if you do not want to see me again   
I would understand, I would understand   
Well he's on the table   
And he's gone to code   
And I do not think anyone knows   
What they are doing here   
And your friends have left you   
You've been dismissed   
I never thought it would come to this   
And I, I want you to know   
Everyone's got to face down the demons   
Maybe today we could put the past away   
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend   
You could cut ties with all the lies that you've been livin in   
And if you do not want to see me again   
I would understand, I would understand   
Can you put the past away   
I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend   
I would understand..... 

* * *

Given the premise that times, places, and people change, the following is a story about all three. The world was considerably smaller thousands of years ago, even hundreds of years ago due to the difficulty of travel. Incredibly the same argument can be made that the world is smaller today because of the ease of modern travel. And some things are meant to be, written in the stars for all eternity. 

Something was troubling Methos and it wasn't just the broken strap of his sandal. The wind blew across the river and carried with it the sounds of Rome burning. He had left the city when he had first seen the fire. Now he was traveling away from Rome to start a new life, a more quiet life. Nero seemed to be edging toward madness, and it was time to get away before everything collapsed. 

As Methos neared the top of a small hill, a chariot recklessly charged down the road. It was driven by brash young Roman with a small scar under his eye. He likely boasts that it is a scar from war when more likely a horse kicked him, Methos thought bitterly. The Immortal had to leap off the road to avoid the indignation of being trampled. 

He stayed off the road fuming until the chariot was long past. As he began his journey again, he heard a nearby sound of crying children. Methos looked down towards the river and saw a young woman with two small children. Both children were dirty with smoke, and burns upon their flesh were visible against the ash. As he approached he saw their mother was silently sobbing. 

Her apparent helplessness angered him, but only for a moment. Then he felt guilty for the anger, remembering the times long ago when that anger was all that fueled him. Struggling against his old habits, he decided to see if he could help. 

"Can I help you?" Methos asked the woman. 

"What can you do?" she responded. 

"I may be able to bandage these children so they heal from the burns." He grinned oddly at the thought that he had learned how to treat wounds by having delivered so many. The grin must have affected the woman because she gave him a tentative smile in return, and tacitly agreed to his offer. 

Methos then instructed the woman to get some water and to rip her dress for bandages. Working efficiently, he had the two children calmed and the wounds dressed in a short time. The worry in the mother's eyes never wavered. 

"I thank you for your help with the children. I cannot pay you and my husband was lost to the fire. Everything he had is gone, and we are now alone." 

Methos saw that she was still scared, maybe worried that he would want payment in terms of sexual gratification. He didn't. Methos thought over what she had said. A woman without a man to speak for her was in dire straits. She needed to get away from the ensuing chaos as much as he did. 

"We need to move away from here. I will help you with the children and speak for you when needed," he told her. Picking up the boy gently, he returned to the road as the woman helped her daughter. They walked on in silence. Eventually the woman asked Methos about his peculiar stride. "The strap on my sandal is broken," was his reply. 

The woman said, "I can mend that." She took a leather bracelet and used it to mend the sandal. As she stood back to examine her work, she was alarmed by the look on the traveler's face. It was a sort of pitiable expression. He must have been lost in an old memory, and she dared to ask him of it. 

Brought back to the present, Methos turned away to walk on without answering her query. Boldly, she said to him, "You have lost someone as well." 

The Immortal breathed in the air deeply, and opened his mouth uncertain of what response to give. "Something like that," he said enigmatically. The woman paused, and decided that he would need time before he could tell her more. 

That night after Methos and the woman made shelter, Methos lay down on the ground and looked at the stars. In his mind he compared the stars to his continual loss. The stars were as eternal as he. And so was the loss he felt every time he had to move on and start over. He hoped that the stars would guide him as they always had as he moved on again. 

Much later, in a village away from Rome's fire and smoke, Methos handed the woman a parchment. "It is a letter to a friend of mine, Marcus Constantine. Bring this letter to him and he will help you." The woman just looked at her mysterious benefactor. Methos continued to explain, "He owes me a favor. I have to go now." After giving short instructions on how to keep the children's wounds clean and where to find Marcus, he left. Marcus can give her the help she needs, he thought. 

* * *

"I need more help over here!" Her shout was barely audible over the screams and the crackle of embers. Several weary people came to where she knelt. Cassandra worked feverishly on several wounded Roman people. She had them laid out on the street where debris was cleared away. At the same time she directed rescue efforts into burned homes, and tried to coordinate water to douse the remaining flames. 

She was very angry. The stress of her many tasks added to the general panic around her gave her the distinct aura that she was not a woman to cross. She spared herself the luxury of reflecting on the irony of her situation. Her intent, on some level, in coming to Rome had been to burn it down herself. She had traveled from the border of the empire where the Roman legions were seen as conquerors and brutal enemies. Their actions against the people she considered herself a part of were atrocities of the worst sort. In a rage, she'd vowed to stop the Romans, and what better way than taking the head of the monster? The Roman Empire's head was the city of Rome itself. 

Now she was instead putting out the fires and saving the people. After all, one look at them and her folly was obvious. She had no right to nationalistic pride any longer. Not in hundreds of years had she been allowed that pride. She had been trained to heal and here were people who needed that training. 

Her momentary thoughtfulness was rudely shattered as a chariot came charging down the cluttered street. She had to leap in front of it to stop the brash driver from callously riding over the wounded people. He pulled back and the horses reared. Swearing at Cassandra, the charioteer gripped the hilt of his sword and demanded she move aside. It seemed he felt he had pressing business in the city. 

"Your chariot can be used to help move those too hurt to walk, and you could lend your strength to clearing the damage from this area." Her look and her voice were more than a match for the charioteer's sword. After some minutes he was pressed into service for the good of the people of Rome, rather than his own pleasures. 

She would not allow herself to forgive the Romans for what was done to the people she cared for, but she also wouldn't let that stop her from the task before her. Again calling for help she fought the flames into the night. The city's fires were quenched, at least this time. Cassandra knew too well that history was a hard habit for people to break. There would be more fires in Rome. 

* * *

  


* * *

Methos looked over at the burning tree stump, probably struck by lightning a few hours ago. He hoped the lightning was natural, but he had heard tavern stories that led him to believe an aggressive Immortal was hunting in this shire. 

Not long ago he'd have welcomed the test of his prowess. Upon further reflection, the ancient decided that those times were, in fact, very long ago. On rainy nights like this he sometimes felt every bit his four thousand years. 

The burro skittered as a goatherd appeared out of the darkness along The muddy track, which served as a road. The sodden and miserable goatherd stared forlornly at Methos' cart as he drove on. Calling down to the serf, he asked to be directed to the closest chapel. A toothless and knowing smile accompanied the goatherd's response. A sizable manor house stood atop the next hill, and succor would be offered within. Methos gave his thanks, and pulled the hood of his cloak further up to vainly block out the storm. 

The cart wasn't very good over the rough muddy track, and Methos couldn't stop longing for the Roman roads. Dutifully maintained, more or less, nights like this had been far more comfortable then. 

Lightning crashed across the sky. Beliefs in Jupiter, Zeus, Odin, and a dozen other gods were very much out of fashion anymore. Christianity had achieved a very robust following. Churches could be found in every hamlet around here, which meant more places to safely wait out the weather. In places such as the manor house he traveled toward, family chapels were common. He surely hadn't foreseen this as the lions ate their meals of the early Christians in the Coliseum. With an effort Methos managed to pull himself free of his reminiscences and began to work out a plan to ensure a warm reception. 

At the house, Methos gave his name of John the Tinkerer. Oftentimes he found that the reputation of travelers such as himself met with hospitality, but just as often he was looked upon with suspicion and loathing. In his trade of tinker he earned his bread with both crafts and news of local areas. People were tied to the land, and most died within a few rods of where they were born. To hear of other places was a great boon to many. 

The door was opened to him, but before he could be taken to his host there was a shout of alarm, and the servant rushed off in response. Methos stood dripping in the hall for a minute or so before he followed the sound of commotion. 

Part of the roof had fallen in above the pantry. No one was seriously hurt, but the stores were getting soaked. Methos wordlessly lifted a sack and followed the line of servants to a drier space. After the goods were salvaged, he lifted a hammer and began to aid in the repair of the roof. The work was far from professional, and the continuing rain made it worse, but in time the hole was patched. 

During the work, Methos listened to the servants talk of the woman who ran the house. She was away this week, and many servants were hoping she was off to be married. For his benefit, a couple of the women there described her beauty and kindness. Their tale was such that Methos began to wish he had posed as a passing noble, rather than a tinker. 

The servants quickly warmed to their able guest, and gossiped about their Lady Aelfflaed. They told him over warmed mead the story of her husband's accidental fall from a horse, and how he never knew that his wife could not bear children. She was a very able governor of the land, making the crops rich and the peasants fat. 

One old fellow spoke of her terrible temper, and how she would howl with the wolves. Methos suspected, but never learned for sure, that this fellow had been chastised for his drinking, and held a grudge. Methos made some excuse and wandered off to the stables. He saw to his old burro, and then began to look around. 

What he found were some of the finest horses he'd seen in several lifetimes. Not only were they well bred, but also they were very well attended to. A figure moved into the weak light, and Methos saw one of the Lady's servants. She had followed him out, and he briefly wondered why. Then she showed him her Watcher's mark. She had met him at a local gathering a year ago and remembered him as a historian with the group. She had assumed that he had come to deliver a message. 

"Do you have news of Lady Aelfflaed? She fares well?" 

Methos paused in his response, trying to figure out what the servant/Watcher was going on about. Then he realized that the Lady was an Immortal, and her watcher had been left behind as the Lady went on her recent trip. Apparently the rumors of an aggressive Immortal had reached her ears as well. 

"I'm sorry. I have no news to tell. I was just passing through." Methos said truthfully. 

The servant looked a little worried and said, "I fear for her safety. I think she may not return from her journey." 

Methos remembered the servants had said that the Lady's husband had died recently spoke to that end, "She may need to leave now that her husband died." He thought about times when he had settled among a group of mortals only to have to leave abruptly when some unexpected event made staying impossible. In just a few years those around the Lady would age and she would not, which would raise suspicions. Methos realized that he did not want to be in this Immortal's house were she to return. 

The servant looked at him longingly and was truly worried about the Immortal she watched. Methos said, "Their lives are filled with danger and with running. It is part of who they are, though we don't understand it. If the Lady is strong, then she will do well." 

This seemed to help settle the servant, who said, "She is strong. We do not know for certain how old she is but I believe she is very old. Her eyes tell me that she is strong." 

Sensing that Methos had no solid answers for her or perhaps fearing she'd be missed by someone, the servant turned and went to the house. Since it was uncertain when the Immortal Lady would return Methos made his way to his tired burro and prepared to head out into the storm. Two Immortals in possible close proximity were too much for Methos in his old age. 

As casually as he could, Methos drove away. 

* * *

Perhaps the time had finally come to let go, Cassandra mused. People were so different now, they had come so far. They lived in huge cities and had commerce and trade all over the world. Mortals excelled in almost every art imaginable. The rewards of her magic were slim against the dangers of it, though it was her special art which she had learned long ago. People seemed almost happy to denounce others of casting spells without real cause. For Cassandra, then, to actually practice her art meant shunning those she desired to help. Things had been worse since the plague, of course, and that would change in time. But for now she felt she needed isolation. There were reasons beyond persecution, as well. 

She worked hard to manage the estate left to her by her husband after his death. They had never really known each other, though, and he didn't live long enough for her to explain why she would never give him an heir. And while she was very capable at management, she knew that it was a position she could not hold much longer. Others would age and she could not. She could not produce an heir to leave what she built, and that was what land was about anymore. 

She sat quietly in the rear of the church as the storm spent itself. She wanted to storm to pass quickly so that she could look at the full moon and the stars. Cassandra had learned to read the stars long ago. They had guided her and helped her interpret messages from gods long dead. 

She had traveled to Cumberland to work out a deal to sell the wood and wool from her land in return for other needed supplies. Not only had she been successful, but she had learned some valuable information. An Immortal had been terrorizing the local area for a short time. Of course, the local talk made no mention of the truth of things, as no mortal knew it. But the stories made a clear picture for Cassandra. There was a threat to her Immortal life, and she would need to give up the charade of her mortal one. As she was forced to learn long ago, discretion meant survival. 

* * *

  


* * *

"When will I learn," Methos, or rather, Dr. Benjamin Adams, wondered aloud. He was hurrying to get out of New Orleans and escape the wrath of an Immortal named Captain Walker. Berating himself as he went, Methos struggled with both his present plight and his past. 

What had started out as a simple call to a sick slave had turned into a very complicated situation. While attending to a young boy slave, Methos had met Charlotte, Walker's woman. Actually, Methos had done more than meet her, as their romp in bed proved. The other Immortal's fury had taken Charlotte's life, and might have done the same to him. For quite some time now, Methos had been working hard to avoid that sort of trouble. 

He felt queasy at the thought of going to the docks. It was more than his aversion to boats that led him the opposite way, it was his realization that Walker had connections there, and that was where he would most certainly begin his hunt. 

Methos knew a lot about the hunt. Not recently, and he admitted to himself that he might be getting rusty. But once he had been supreme in that arena. He laughed at his own hubris. Even as a Horseman he'd avoided conflicts. Not with the thousands he slew, but with his brothers. How often had he backed away from Kronos to keep peace? How many had died because of that? 

A horse ran past, startling him. He knew that now was not the time to dwell on ancient issues, but he fell into them nevertheless. "I see a pattern," he thought ruefully. "I never fought for her, and I didn't fight for Charlotte, either." Somehow, his instinct for self-preservation over rode his feelings for a woman. He had stood mute as Kronos dragged Cassandra from his tent. It could have meant her life. Charlotte was not his doing, though, Methos concluded. Her blood was on Walker's hands, not his. 

Even so, Methos had the bitter realization that he was a hypocrite. How righteously he hissed to Walker, "You owned her!" How many women had he enslaved as a Horseman? Walker had told him that he had loved her but all he had truly cared about was the power he had over her. Were they the same? That question, Methos quickly decided, was not important. What he had been was in his past. In spite of regrets, he had to keep alive. 

And dry. To his chagrin the sky had clouded up quickly and a flash of lightning heralded a soaking rain. After all this time of wandering the earth, he still hadn't learned to come in out of the rain. "When will I learn," he muttered out loud. 

* * *

Captain Walker stalked angrily around town in search of the Immortal who had wronged him. Walker was not forgiving, and the actions and cowardice of Dr. Adams had him in a dangerous rage. As he searched the docks he sensed an Immortal. Without preamble he lunged around the corner slashing out with his blade. "You bastard, Charlotte was my woman!" Walker hissed as he struck. 

To his surprise his sword was blocked by one held by a beautiful brunette. "That's very nice for you," she quipped as she stepped away. She moved with practiced grace within her large dress. 

Disappointed, Walker said, "You're not him." 

"No, I'm not." 

Neither of them lowered their swords. Instead they circled each other, each making an assessment. As swords met again, an odd smile came over Walker's face. Cassandra had seen that lecherous grin on men before, and she knew what thoughts were in his head. 

"You're not him, but you've got some spirit in you - I like that. Maybe I'll have you before I take you're head," Walker said as his grin widened. He moved to wound her so that he could carry off his spoils of battle. Cassandra ducked the swing and leaned toward his legs, cutting at the backs of his knees. He cried out, and she ran him through his side as she came up, using her lower position to push him backwards. 

He tumbled over and fell into the water. At the sound, some men came over from nearby, barely allowing time for Cassandra to duck away. As she hurried off she thought, it's nights like these she wished didn't happen. 

The wind was picking up as a storm began to move in. Hurrying to her departing ship, Cassandra thought to herself that challenges with unknown Immortals were very disconcerting. Although she wasn't the person he was after, something from the encounter was deeply troubling. 

As the first thick drops fell from the sky, Cassandra realized that it was the few words he had said to her, "You've got spirit in you - I like that." Those words, that sentiment, irritated her. Ages past, before she'd known anything at all, Kronos had spoken almost that exact same sentence to Methos regarding her. She grew angry at the memory from the past. After working so hard to bury the feelings, they were brought back so easily. As she boarded the ship the storm grew as dark as her mood. 

* * *

  


* * *

Sundance had noticed an increase in the malaise of the usually introspective Tom Carver. Although he had participated in the planning of the heist, he seemed distracted. For Sundance, that posed a problem. Having men who were not attentive brought trouble. 

"Thinker, let's get a move on!" Sundance called in encouragement. The nickname Thinker was given in part for Carver's constant planning, and in part for his withdrawn nature. Sure, Carver often got wild along with the rest of the gang, in fact he'd even taught Sundance a bit about rowdy behavior. However, he had a habit of getting lost in his thoughts. 

"I'm not going. I've got something I need to do in town," came the reply. 

"What? The train is on its way! Let's go!" 

"I have to do something, it can't wait. You're enough without me. Go!" Not prepared to argue, Sundance rode off and joined the gang that was already on its way. Methos looked after him, a bit longingly, and turned his horse toward town. 

The Immortal didn't want to miss out on this heist. The Great North Flyer was sure to have a lot of cash, and Methos liked to see his planning bear fruit. He urged his horse to a gallop and tried to focus on one thing at a time. He realized when things had begun to get confused. It was just a few weeks ago when the gang came to this town. That was when he had to face that this life he was leading was dangerously, exhilaratingly, close to a time ages ago. A time he kept trying to repent for. 

As Methos rode, he tried to sort out what had finally gotten to him. He tried to convince himself that it was more than just her name. 

It was a night like many of recent months, as he rode across endless land with the camaraderie of Sundance, Butch, and the rest. It might have been Ben Kilpatrick who proposed a visit to the whorehouse. It was Methos who had ended up in her room. She was a petite blonde, maybe sixteen years old, and she was shaking. Instead of the carefree romp he had been expecting, he'd had a long conversation. He felt torn as to how he should react. A true gunslinger and bank robber never would have bothered to hear about how her parents had died. 

Methos had listened. He'd even felt for her. Going back to town was several steps further than he imagined he would go. He did more to help her that night that she ever could have hoped for from a client of the dusty brothel. He had convinced the Madame that the girl had more than earned her money, and that she probably would need to rest for a few days from all the exercise. 

"You can call me Tom," he remembered telling the girl. After a short time in this work, she would have a number of names for the men who came to her. Impersonal and erotic names for them to enjoy. 

"My name's Cassandra, but my friends call me Sandy," she replied without a hint of guile or self-protection. 

The name itself wasn't what mattered, he argued to himself as he approached the steps of the building. It was that after being a member of the Wild Bunch, the horses and the stealing and the sense of power were like a drug. He was a Horseman again, only his brothers were mortal and the slaughter was drastically less. But the rules were essentially the same. This time he needed to do it right. 

"I'm here for Sandy," he told the sleepy Madame plainly. 

"A little early, isn't it?" She chuckled hoarsely. "Sandy's no good for you, I'll find you a good woman." 

"You've misunderstood," Methos said climbing the stairs. He stopped her protest with a warning look. She'd been around long enough to sense the danger in the outlaw's eyes. She backed away. 

Methos found Sandy in a heap beside her bed. She had been beaten severely, and cringed when he reached for her. Soon they were heading out of the whorehouse together. Until they were stopped by the rifle the Madame held. 

"She is nothing more than a slave here," Methos said to her. "I'm buying your slave. There's a thousand dollars in this satchel," he saw her look to it with avarice, "use it to fill your bed with someone else." He dropped the bag and the Madame lowered her rifle. 

Methos and Sandy went out to his horse. There were questions in her eyes that he couldn't answer. He rode with her out of town and away from the Wild Bunch. His time with them was done. 

In the next town he came to, he went straight to the church. Finding the minister to have genuine concern, Methos told him of Sandy's plight. "Is there a family she can live with?" he finally asked of the priest. 

The minister had been studying the outlaw's face. Although he seemed to be one of the hard men that were abundant out here, his compassion for this young girl struck the minister as a notable feature. He nodded and said that he knew of a family who would help. 

The relief Methos felt made him weary. He was so tired he thought to himself that he finally felt his age. 

"You've gone out of your way to help this unfortunate child, yet you hardly seem the type. May I ask why?" 

The question was too difficult and the minister too canny for Methos to evade the truth. "A long time ago," the Immortal confided after a deep sigh, "About at the beginning of time, I hurt a woman named Cassandra. I have never been able to make it up to her. This young, vulnerable girl bears the same name. I had to help her." 

The minister pretended to understand the weight Methos carried, perhaps he actually did. "God leads men to salvation before they get to Hell," came the preacher's soothing voice. 

With a dark look, Methos spoke with the voice of ages. "After making Hell, and living through it, some men make their own salvation." He crossed the length of the small church to where Sandy was waiting. As she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. "It is all settled; you'll be safe." 

She was full of questions, but the odd tone in his voice made her pause. He abruptly turned and walked away without saying good-bye. Sandy was obviously stung, not yet realizing she was not truly being abandoned. The priest moved to her and began the long process of giving comfort, "Both of you have taken the first steps out of the land of the Damned..." 

* * *

"Damn Roland!" Cassandra inwardly cursed the man for all the trouble he was causing her. She fought with her bags, rudely shrugging off the help offered by the porter. Roland had come after her, and he was so persistent she knew she would have to disappear. Had it not been for Roland she'd not have had to have been on the train, and she'd still have her locket. 

It was silly to treasure material things, but it had been a gift from Rebecca hundreds of years ago. The robbers also aggravated the old feelings of helplessness she always fought so hard against. The other passengers lost money and keepsakes too, she empathized. None of them had the advantages she did as an Immortal. 

But her anger flared up once again. Here it was the twentieth century and no one had stopped such behavior. A large train like the Great North Flyer should have been better prepared to protect the passengers. 

Some of who were already telling their stories to the newspaper. Cassandra looked across the station at the crowd, which had gathered to write about the infamous Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. There was quite a contrast between these modern scoundrels and the Horsemen of thousands of years ago. She sighed in resignation at how often similar events were to play themselves out in her life. Armed bandits on horseback seemed to be a recurring theme for her, and time hadn't yet eased the anger she harbored. 

Cassandra thought about the stolen locket. The engraving within had a life's lesson, which had helped her. Perhaps the bandits would read it and learn from its sentiment. Inside the locket it read, "The past cannot be changed, the future is what you make it." Rebecca didn't believe that fear or the painful start of an Immortal's life should overwhelm the rest of her days. Cassandra had learned to appreciate her Immortality, thanks to Rebecca. Violence was inherent in an Immortal's life, and there were many ways one needed to be strong in order to survive. It was hard for her, but Cassandra tried to let go of the past. 

* * *

  


* * *

"Let go of the fence," the beefy guard said to the drunken fan. Regaining control of himself, the fan leaned away from the barrier protecting the stage. He gave a sly smile, and stumbled back into the surging crowd. 

Methos was very drunk. That might have been bad, but he was at a Rolling Stones concert at the Altamont Raceway. He'd be sober before long, he knew, which also might be a bad thing. For now, he was going to make the most of it, pragmatist that he was. Tensions were running high in the crowd. As he started to push his way back to the stage, he felt a distant buzz of another Immortal. Instinct told him to go, but he knew the safest spot for him would be in the densest part of the crowd. 

Back at the foot of the stage the amps beat too loudly for him to hear what the security men were shouting about. He struggled to turn halfway around in the press, and saw a skirmish not far off. Unable to even move his arms he looked on helplessly as another fan met up with the beefy guard. A few fists flew and the fan fell hard to the ground. 

Cassandra helped her friend Linda up off the ground. Linda had just gotten bumped by an excited fan. The Rolling Stones concert was beyond Cassandra's understanding but Linda was enjoying herself. Cassandra appreciated Linda's sweetness and sincerity and had graciously accepted the concert ticket. She had long since made it a rule not to befriend too many mortals. An Immortal's life could get complicated with a mortal in it. 

"Thanks, Sue," Linda said. "Isn't it groovy? Maybe we'll be able to get close enough to get a good look at Mick's lips." 

To her friend Cassandra gave a big smile, to herself she rolled her eyes. She then felt an Immortal close by but couldn't pick out who it was. She kept a wary eye but concentrated more on not getting separated from Linda. 

Sometime later the two were waiting in line outside the restroom. The concert had been stopped early due to violence outside. Cassandra found herself oddly disappointed, as she was just beginning to enjoy herself. 

Sober now, Methos took one look at the long lines at the bathrooms. "Roman plumbing has come to this," he muttered. The other Immortal at the concert was very close. Soon he wouldn't have much of a crowd to hide in, so he thought it best to head home. 

Linda was saying something that Cassandra couldn't make out over the ringing in her ears and the added awareness of another Immortal. Whoever it was left the area leaving Cassandra to hear more about her friend's infatuation with the lead singer. Even with the night ending early, Linda had her dream come true. 

* * *

  


* * *

It was the third time this week he was having this particular nightmare. The smells and dust were vivid. As he sat brooding in his darkening tent, Caspian came to him with a message. Kronos wanted to see him. 

Methos stood slowly, and stepped out of his tent. There was a confusion of horses and shadows as he made his way to his brother's tent. He could hear Cassandra's protests and pleas for help drifting from every direction. His breath caught as he stepped into the tent to find Kronos had Cassandra pinned down and he was forcing himself upon her. Caspian moved to block the way out of the tent. As Methos stood, unable to leave, Kronos pulled Cassandra up and put his sword in her hands. Caspian's rough grip suddenly held Methos, and Kronos spoke into Cassandra's ear. He told her to take Methos' head. 

As she swung the blade, a very sweaty, nervous Methos bolted upright in bed as the images in the dream moved toward memory. He got out of bed in his flannel boxers and went to the refrigerator to get a beer. As he swallowed the cool drink, he thought that one night of uninterrupted sleep would be nice. 

* * *

Cassandra clicked the remote control and the television shut off. She thought about the show she had just watched. It had been a 60 Minutes report about the rise of Neo-Paganism, and she thought to herself that the pendulum had swung the other way. 

She climbed into bed in navy blue silk pajamas and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She wanted a nice night of sleep tonight. For over a week each night's sleep had been shattered by horrible, twisted images of her past. She closed her eyes and mentally said an ancient spell to allow sleep's images to be ones of happiness. The spell did not take. She tossed and turned for a while, until finally getting up to put on some music. After a time fatigue claimed her, and she fell asleep. 

Again she was in the desert, the land of her mortal life. She had just finished collecting herbs and handed them to Hijad. He spoke to her, saying, "You will use much magic to heal someone." 

"Who?" Cassandra asked. 

Hijad pointed to a figure sitting on the horizon. Silhouetted by the sunset the man sat motionless upon a weathered rock. Behind the blue face paint was Methos. 

Cassandra protested, "I cannot - I _will not_ heal him." 

Looking into her eyes, Hijad then queried, "Do you still hurt?" 

Quietly, Cassandra voiced a yes. 

"He does also. There is no one else to heal him. Remember there is more to healing than herbs." Hijad counseled. 

The wind blew and he was gone. Cassandra turned from where her father had been and saw a bowl of water and a rag. Mechanically, she picked them up and moved to where Methos was seated. As she neared, she discovered that he was looking at his hands, which were covered in dried blood. 

In her dream Cassandra found herself trying to wash the stains from his hands with a wetted rag. To her distress the stains were not lifted and she cringed, fearing his reprisal. Instead of a slap she felt a gentle touch on her cheek. With that touch the dried blood turned fresh and dripped onto Cassandra's dress. 

Hijad's voice drifted through as she awoke, "Heal each other." 

She fought back the tears in her eyes, now awake. Nightmares of the past were one thing, but nightmares of conjured events were another. Although it was an hour before she had planned to get up, she decided falling back to sleep would be impossible. She fumbled for her robe and headed off to the shower. 

* * *

"Thank you, Mr. Pierson." The hotel clerk said as he handed Methos his keys for his hotel room. With his room key in hand and his bag on his shoulder Methos headed toward his room. He was tired from his drive down the West Coast to California. He hadn't been sleeping well in Seacouver for the last couple of weeks; nightmares bothered him almost nightly. He thought that a change in scenery and a different bed might help his dilemma. California seemed as good a destination as any other. It was already early evening so Methos decided to get pizza and beer for dinner. 

As Methos looked over the menu he decided on the toppings for his pizza. When his eyes fell upon the word 'pineapple' he was startled. When did they start putting pineapple on pizza he wondered? Yet another thing to assimilate into his consciousness. Well, not really, it was just pineapple after all. But it was another new thing. 

As he drank his beer he wondered where his youth had gone. Gone were the days and nights of drinking, cavorting and merriment with friends till the early hours of the morning. A beer at Joe's place just wasn't the same as his past times of drunken debauchery. Ages past Methos could easily answer the challenge of another Immortal even as he stumbled home drunk. History had claimed all his friends, mortal and Immortal. Most recently he had lost Byron and Kronos to MacLeod and Silas was lost by Methos' own hand. So who was left? Mac, Amanda, Joe, and if he stretched the definition of friend, Robert and Gina de Valicourt. At least those two did not actively want him dead . . . anymore. Mac, Amanda and Joe went through phases of wanting him dead depending on the circumstances. 

It was as if Methos was having an existential temper tantrum. On the one hand he was pleased that the young Immortals out there believed he was a myth. But on the other hand he had no one to share his life with. He was alone. And if there was one thing he hadn't learned to master yet it was the intense painful loneliness that seized his soul at times. Sure, he could act as if nothing bothered him. There was a slight consolation though. Cassandra knew him...and wanted him dead. Knew wasn't the right verb. She didn't _know_ him. She didn't know that he would rather sit at home and read a good book with a cold beer than do anything that resembled the atrocities of his past. 

With his lonely meal finished, he returned to the hotel. Clad in his gray boxers, he climbed into bed after placing his sword under his pillow. He wanted a pleasant night of sleep, free of the nightmares that had bothered him in Seacouver. He fell asleep quickly and was grateful for that. 

With his sleep having been peaceful, for the first time in a long time, and his breakfast easily obtained at the hotel, Methos went for a drive. The highway was a little crowded, so after an hour he pulled into a scenic overlook and parked. The sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the clear blue sky. He set his lean form against the rocks and looked out to the vast Pacific Ocean. Soon, though, he became restless and decided to walk along the highway for a while. Being Immortal and not needing to be anywhere in particular, Methos lost track of time. 

The familiar motion of walking allowed him to think more clearly. Actually, this time it was more like brooding. The ancient had been ill at ease for quite a while now. More and more the memories of antiquity had been invading his carefully constructed composure. He understood that the deaths of the other three Horsemen had affected him. After all, they were they only link left to his origins. Almost the only link, anyway. To distract himself from thinking too much about dour times, he tried to recite some works by Plato as he walked. 

Cars passed by, largely unaware of the weight the man carried with him. Ages upon ages of memories crowded in. He'd had a lot of practice balancing the past against the present, but there were times that it was very difficult. He looked down to the rough surf, and had a disturbing impulse. He turned away, and fought the dark visions. 

Remembering what he had told Mac in a graveyard three years ago, "I wanted to live. I still do." Methos thought about his life. Maybe Kronos had been right, Methos had gone soft. To go from being a mass murderer of legendary volume to a guy who would walk in the other direction upon sensing another Immortal did seem soft. But he was alive and that was what mattered to Methos. In many philosophies it was considered wisdom and strength to take a path of peace. Then again, he wasn't exactly at peace. 

Realizing he was farther from his truck than he felt comfortable being, he crossed the highway and put out his thumb in hopes of getting a quick ride. 

* * *

In her hotel room Cassandra awoke to a bright sunny morning, which pleased her. She had been in New York City for the last week and a half setting up a new identity there. It had rained the whole time she had been getting her new apartment and life set up and her pesky nightmares had continued. So she'd hopped on a plane to sunny California. 

She was tired because last night she had awakened herself at the start of any dream and thus neither experienced a full nightmare nor a full night of sleep. She got ready for the day by showering and getting breakfast. She wanted to savor a few days of sunny California before returning to New York. 

Perhaps laying on the beach would cure the nightmares. Upon renting a little red convertible, Cassandra asked the clerk for directions to a nice beach. She also quickly purchased a two-piece black bathing suit and set off. At the beach she frolicked in the ocean waves and then laid on a beach towel to dry off. She tanned easily, and enjoyed feeling the sun on her skin. She watched two children determinedly build a sand castle and then saw it get washed away when they were called by their mother. She watched people playing in the ocean and surfers riding the waves. 

These times when she could forget the past and live in the moment were all too infrequent. The combination of sun and waves had put her in an uncharacteristically happy, almost giddy, mood. 

Zipping along in the sporty red convertible, with her glossy hair blowing in the wind, Cassandra felt happy to be alive. She was invigorated by the physical world. The sun, the wind and the water had combined to create these feelings of vibrancy in her. Continuing to give herself to the physical world, she wore her denim shorts but didn't wear a shirt over her bikini top. Her dark sunglasses shielded her eyes from the sunlight that poured down on her. Desiring music to further energize her mood, she turned the radio on. 

After the annoying jingle for the local hardware store ended, modern music began to play. Though Cassandra wasn't one to listen to modern music often, the song caught her attention and she learned the words as the song played. There were some interesting lines. "Well everyone I know has got a reason, to say, put the past away." Then some more thoughtful words, "And I, I want you to know, everyone's got to face down the demons, maybe today we can put the past away." Cassandra sighed deeply and wondered if she should take signs about change from modern songs. Putting the past away was an interesting notion. Where would she put it? She had so much of it. As she told Duncan three years ago, in the beginning she had tried to forget what happened and then years turned into centuries and now she was three thousand. So many events and people had colored her life. Facing down the demons was something she had done more than once in her long life, most recently in Bordeaux three years ago. When the song ended the notion of putting the past away stayed in her mind. 

* * *

Methos tried to console himself after the eighth car passed without slowing. It was not as if he had forgotten how to walk, in fact he felt it was one thing he was quite good at. But with the hot sun and his trouble sleeping he was eager to get back to his truck. Besides, he was hungry. There was a nice restaurant near where he had parked, and he visualized having a cute waitress bring him a juicy steak. Trying his best to emulate Joe's apparent style of hitchhiking, Methos struck out a ninth time. 

"One last try and I will walk," he muttered dejectedly. 

Cassandra rounded a sharp corner and felt as though she had been struck by ice water. She would recognize that silhouette anytime, anywhere. Tall and lean, with his short hair and sunglasses on, it was Methos. 

In a flash, millennia evaporated, and she was an ignorant slave under his control. Then time came rushing back - lessons she had learned from countless experiences. Rebecca and Duncan both stood out in her mind, cautioning her about the past. She reacted, as usual, with emotion. 

She was feeling too stubborn to show shock or dismay, and she was in too good a mood to pass up the chance to torment the one nightmare she couldn't free herself from. She stopped the car inches from his outstretched arm. 

"Need a lift?" she asked, sweet as honey. 

Mouth agape, Methos stared at the bronze skin, the wind-blown hair, and the wide smile. He knew then for certain that he had been in the sun for too long. He tried to form a simple smile, but it came out all lopsided, he knew. Still Cassandra sat patiently awaiting his response. 

All right, Methos thought to himself, two can play this game, whatever it is. After all, he had survived long enough to learn not to be caught off guard, more or less. If she had something in mind, he still knew her well enough to avoid trouble. Besides, it seemed as though this might be the only offer he was going to get. 

"Your offer is almost as welcome as your smile," is what he tried to say. Instead it came out as, "Er...sure, thanks." 

He settled himself into the passenger seat, noticing the liveliness of the car. "Nice car," he muttered. Normally he would be able to speak some meaningless banter, but he was still discomforted by the situation. He dared a look at the driver, and found her to be smiling. 

She's still strong and passionate, Methos thought to himself. But she's hiding behind this good cheer routine. Unless she actually is feeling good, and isn't hiding it. Or it could be a bit of both. He realized he was thinking too much about it, which was probably exactly what she had in mind from the start. 

Cassandra handled the curves with skill, even though she was only partly paying attention. She was questioning her actions and trying to be casual at the same time. Hoping she appeared ignorant of his closeness, Cassandra was fighting ancient feelings brought back by having him so near. She knew instinctively that he was trying to figure her out; he always needed to know the rules of any game. The best way to spite him, she decided, was to change the rules, or even not to have any. She brought this on herself, she thought, make the most of it. The only Horseman still alive was squirming in his seat, and she had the power to make it worse for him. 

Methos wanted to test his theories about her behavior, so he tried some casual conversation. He figured a neutral comment about the weather would do no harm. 

"Nice day, isn't it?" He said. 

"Yes. It is a nice day...to be alive." Cassandra replied. 

Methos wondered if her comment was a dig regarding the fact that she had spared his life in Bordeaux. Well, he certainly wasn't going to question her on it. Methos realized that there wasn't a neutral topic for two of them to talk about. 

Cassandra had a frantic thought that he might be hitchhiking all the way to Seacouver. She would not drive him there. She needed to know where to drop him off, which meant continuing a conversation with him. 

"What's your destination?" she asked. 

Methos figured she meant the question literally and not in some overarching existential sense. "My truck is parked a few miles up at a scenic overlook." 

This time, once he started talking, he found himself unable to stop. He went on how the view was very nice, but he had gotten to feeling a bit restless. Not restless in the way that Leif Ericson was restless, mind you, what with going off to discover other continents, but just feeling that a bit of a walk would do nicely. He was able to stop himself before going on more about the Viking culture, but mostly because he never really felt as though he fit in among them. 

Cassandra just blinked, not loosing her smile, and decided to change the rules on him once again. "I'm sorry, I must have been lost in thought. Did you say something?" 

"Well, er, yes. I did." Methos decided not to repeat himself, however. He got tired of being confused, and decided instead to turn the tables. "Shall I guess what you were thinking? You were thinking of 'the hedgerows of England. They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden; thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet-'" 

She looked at him as if he had gone suddenly and dangerously mad. Methos grinned child-like, and opened his mouth to recite some more. 

"You're insane," she said simply. 

"'Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the seaside.' Do you care for Longfellow? I've always considered him to have been a genius. Or did you fancy Keats?" 

"I never had the pleasure of meeting either of them," she managed to respond, refusing to allow him to gain the upper hand. "Byron has always been one of my favorites, though." 

With that, Methos began a literary discussion that lasted until his Blazer came into view. 

Methos was surprised she had agreed to lunch considering how she responded the last time he'd suggested food to her, in Bordeaux. 

They were seated by a window looking out over the waves of the Pacific. The crowds had moved on now that it was well past the lunch hour rush. There was a noisy family near them, but they were enjoying their time together, and the atmosphere was congenial. Glumly, Methos looked at the fern set near them, it would be better placed out of the direct sun, he thought. Maybe a cactus would look nicer instead. The thought of the cactus' thorns caused him to look back at Cassandra. 

Methos wasn't sure what he was going to say to her. He was certain he wouldn't go on about the Stockholm Syndrome again. It just slipped out after she brought up the Iliad. They had been discussing the nature of romanticism, and then she had said, "Homer understood the power of romance ages before William Blake did in 'Love's Secret'." 

"To my mind," he had countered, "Helen was just responding to the Helsinki Syndro-" Damn, that was a slip. Well at least she couldn't take his head in the restaurant. 

Cassandra was amazed that she had agreed to this meal. She happened to have been hungry, but more than that, Methos was trying to evade the fact that he was wrong. He pretended to understand the romantic age, but clearly he had lived apart from it. She was just about to corner him and make him admit his ignorance when he brought up lunch. Without giving him a chance to change the subject, she pulled on her shirt and went into the restaurant with him. 

Part of her figured that the public nature of the restaurant would help keep whatever conversation they had civilized. She brooded in furious silence for quite some time. No sooner had they placed their order, but he went and showed his colors. She tapped her nails on the table's surface. Cassandra, the passionate creature that she was, finally had a characteristic outburst. 

"You haven't changed," she practically hissed at Methos. Images of him at the dawn of recorded history stirred turbulently in her mind. 

Methos was ready for this philosophical conversation. 

He responded, "If not, then I'm the only thing. Can you even recognize the world anymore? Not just the people or the language, but the very land is different. Mountains, rivers, oceans... I tried to retrace my steps, go everywhere I'd already been. I even went into the North Atlantic." Seeing her quizzical gaze, he amended, "Never mind - long story. Nowhere I went did the past become any clearer. Nowhere could I find my old footsteps." 

But Cassandra wasn't swayed by Methos' reminisces and said angrily, "I'm sure you'd love to go back. You're still a butcher." It was said with such cool conviction he looked to his hands for blood and sand. 

"I would like to go back, sometimes. To do things different, maybe. Or at least to be free of the-" he stopped before saying guilt or remorse. It would sound hollow. Unreal. He returned his gaze to hers, let her read his face. 

She had to look away, she knew then he was not the same. Nothing was. But the past still counted against him, that was the same. 

Timing of the drinks allowed them to change the topic. 

Somehow both of them were able to accept the strained nature of conversation that followed. A little talk of Duncan, something about her looking forward to her job. There were long periods of silence where they tried vainly to decide for themselves why they had put themselves in this position, and why they remained in it. About the time their food arrived, they were carefully discussing Babylonian and Celtic observations of the heavens. 

The restaurant was a typical fish and chips place. The large dining room was wood-paneled and featured above every table a seaside painting for sale. At the two far corners of the room were fishing nets decorated with seashells. 

The family from Denver finished their meal and went excitedly off to their minivan. The youngest turned back at the door to look at the couple that had sat near them. She would grow up and remember the dark hair and serious looks of the strangers, and wonder why to a child they seemed so grand. People from a fairy tale read to her at bedtime, right there beside her in California. 

Her eyes flashed in another burst of anger. It seemed as though her hostility could be brought out by anything, even a meaningless gesture. He knew her to be passionate in many ways, and had methods of controlling the fury within her. But those methods were part of what was to blame for her current hate, and certainly would be inappropriate in a room full of mortals, even if he still had the capacity to execute them. The methods, not the mortals - same difference, really. 

She was saying something about Kronos, but he wasn't really listening. She had never known him. Methos had been very careful to prevent that. Impulsively, he said, "You are so much like him, you know." 

That stopped her. She was ready to take his head with her bare hands for what he said, which more or less proved his point. With smug logic, he explained this to her. He also told her of how both she and his late brother were ruled by their passions. The deciding difference was that Cassandra cared, deeply. For all things: life, mortals, history, prophecy, good, bad, and ordinary. Kronos had cared for nothing. He had been empty of all that made someone human. 

Methos had known all this even then, though not as clearly. His instinct had always been to prevent her from learning Kronos' way of being. If she ever were to lose that which made her special, she could have become truly horrifying. He stopped to think on this, never having said any of it aloud before. Perhaps not all of his instincts had been selfish. For all he forced her to endure, even by not acting to protect her from Kronos at the end, she had learned to hate what they were. 

The audacity of Methos to compare her to Kronos was almost too much for Cassandra to bear. She couldn't kill him in the restaurant and she didn't want to argue with him because a very tiny part of her told her he was right. She was a caring person. Kronos had been a cruel creature pleased only by slaughter. So Methos had spoken the truth, or a part of it, something she had thought him unable to do. She wanted to change the conversation's topic but Methos beat her to it. 

"So are you planning to do anything special while you are in California?" Methos questioned her. 

Cassandra answered, "No, nothing too special." Then after a pause, "There's a bookstore I went to a few years back that I want to go to again. It's a few towns over." Then, after another pause and some reflection, Cassandra said, "Actually it's closer to twenty years ago, but who's counting?" 

She mentioned the name of the bookstore and the conversation slid into a discussion of their favorite books. 

Cassandra denied having a favorite book, saying she just loved reading for it's own sake. She asked Methos what his favorite book was and a serious look came over his face. It was a looked she'd seen many times before. He lowered his head and looked side to side as if to check for hidden microphones. 

Then he said to her, "Don't tell anyone. I'll be the laughing stock of Immortals." 

Cassandra nodded her head and wondered if he was going to say the Bible, Revelations 6:8, or the Anarchist Cookbook. Satisfied with her affirmation that she wouldn't tell anyone Methos looked around again. Cassandra wasn't sure how the conversation had gotten so suspenseful. 

Then Methos said, " _The Cat in the Hat_ , by Dr. Seuss." 

Cassandra was so taken by surprise that she burst out laughing. Death himself, liked Dr. Seuss. Methos laughed too, without malice or spite. It seemed impossible to Cassandra that she and Methos were laughing together, but they were. Such a simple human act, done without forethought or hidden agenda, hinted to each of them, that the other one had changed. 

Their parting was almost as abrupt as their meeting. They left the restaurant and walked to their vehicles. For all the talking they had done in her car and the restaurant they were out of words. There was no 'bye' or 'thank you' or even a challenge spoken. Boots crunched across the gravel as performance tires returned to the road. Neither pair of eyes made a backward glance. 

Cassandra sipped at her tea in the lobby's coffee shop after arriving at her hotel. She enjoyed many of the aspects of the brewed drink, often pondering them as she drank. The beverage was as ancient as she was. It soothed her and allowed her to focus. 

She reminisced about all the events with the Horsemen from Seacouver to Bordeaux. Having witnessed the group's destruction allowed her to move beyond some of the seasoned pains. In Bordeaux she had told Duncan that Kronos was the heart of the Horsemen and Methos was the head and both needed to die. Kronos, the heart, was dead. Cassandra found herself asking what animal can live without its heart? The answer was none. It took some years of living life, but this day with Methos clearly showed her that she was past the feelings of being hunted. The anguish of old had abated, and she was feeling ready for something new. 

But Methos still lived. She might have wanted him dead the most at one time, but now she needed to accept that he was different. They both were. And yet, they were both so much the same. The cat and mouse games at the restaurant proved that as well, each trying to gain some advantage in any conversation. Before long Cassandra was second-guessing her good mood. After all those years of pain at the hands of Methos, she could not possibly have had a nice time with him. There was just too much bitter history. 

Cassandra frowned deeply into her empty cup. 

"Would you like another cup?" asked the gray-haired manager on duty. 

Cassandra looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "Sorry, I was lost in a thought." 

"What were you thinking?" His dark brown eyes sparkled knowingly, in a fatherly sort of way, evoking trust. 

There was something very familiar about him, she decided. However, she'd known so many mortals in her long life that they all had begun to seem like someone she had once known. He wore a circular medallion around his neck which also seemed familiar. But circles were universal and he probably just thought it a neat neckpiece. 

"I was thinking about whether or not people can change." 

"That's an age old question. Poets, philosophers, and songwriters have been working on that since the beginning of time. Now I may be just a fellow who serves some drinks, but I think I have a good idea about people." He paused to be sure that Cassandra was interested in him continuing, her smile urged him to go on. "You have to look long and hard at a person's life. Consider the people they know and the events that they go through. Sometimes a friend can make a big impact on a life. People can change, but not everyone does. It takes both willingness and strength. For some it is harder than for others." 

The man assessed Cassandra for a moment and added, "But you're still young, anything is possible." 

Cassandra laughed out loud. "Well I don't know if it is the herbal tea or the compliment, but I am feeling better. Thank you." 

As he turned away to another customer, he responded with a sly wink. "There is more to healing than herbs." 

The door to the Sand Bar swung open as Methos was going to grab the handle, and a pair of paint-splattered workmen exited the dingy bar. Once inside, Methos slid into a dark booth in the far corner. It had been a day since he had seen Cassandra and had lunch with her. He pensively tapped the table while he waited to be served. After ordering a draft beer he slumped in the booth and imagined that the coldness of the beer would settle him. When it arrived he downed it and ordered another. After sitting with his second beer for a while he realized that there was music emanating from the jukebox near the door. He closed his eyes and let the words of the song wash over him as he drank. 

"I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend. You could cut ties with all the lies. That you've been living in. And if you do not want to see me again, I would understand." 

But lies were all he had. They were the structure of his world. 

"The angry boy, a bit too insane, icing over a secret pain. You know you don't belong. You're the first to fight, you're way too loud. You're the flash of light on a burial shroud. I know something's wrong." 

"I used to be," Methos said with a hint of sadness then added, "all...those things," referring to the song, as he recalled his days in the ancient world as a Horseman. 

Methos took a swallow of his beer as the second verse played. 

"And I do not think anyone knows what they are doing here. And your friends have left you. You've been dismissed. I never thought it would come to this. And I, I want you to know everyone's got to face down the demons. Maybe today, we could put the past away." 

The song continued on but Methos got lost in memories about Bordeaux. Had he really known what he was doing in Bordeaux? His friends, his brothers, had been dead and gone only three years but it seemed like forever. After Methos had cleaned up "Kronos' idea of Camelot" he had walked into the blinding sunlight from the dark submarine base. 

He had been dismissed- eternally. And no, he had never thought it would come to this; but it had. 

"Everyone's got to face down the demons. Maybe today we could put the past way." Those two sentences whirled around in Methos' head and no matter how much he drank he couldn't dislodge them. 

He had faced down his demon, which was the memory of himself as Death. "I'm not like that anymore," he had pleaded with Kronos. It was true, he had changed. He didn't slaughter innocents for fun anymore. There were enough places in the world run by maniacs who wanted to kill large numbers of people, the Middle East, former Yugoslavia, if he wanted to resume being Death. Instead he was friend to Duncan MacLeod, the Immortal Mr. Smith goes to the Gathering, Champion of the Downtrodden, The Knight in Shining Armor. 

Out of nowhere the alcohol dislodged Mac's question: "What about Cassandra?" Yes, what about her, indeed. It was wonderful that she was still passionate, she hadn't been worn down to the point of apathy by time. She seemed full of life, which was good for an immortal of her age. If only he could see her one more time, thought Methos. He tried to remember the name of the bookstore she said she might go to shop at. Maybe he would happen to meet her there. 

Cassandra parked in the lot behind the bookstore. She had fond memories of shopping there almost two decades ago. The store was very new then and she remembered talking with the owners and wishing them luck on their new adventure. She went to the front of the store and was disappointed to find it was closed for vacation for the next two weeks. Oh well, thought Cassandra, maybe next time I visit sunny California. Cassandra walked toward her car and felt the presence of another Immortal. 

From behind her came the challenge, "There can be only one." 

Cassandra, still stung from the store being closed, retorted with sarcasm, "So I've been told." 

She looked at the unfamiliar opponent. He was of average height, but powerfully built. He wore a sleeveless shirt obviously designed to emphasize his musculature. But rather than being an alluring fitness that Duncan possessed, it was almost a grotesque parody of bulk. He chose not to identify himself, nor did he seem to care who he faced. That she was alone and apparently not as strong was all that mattered. 

His sword was a modern version of a Scottish claymore. Apparently selected solely on the basis of size and weight. Cassandra didn't desire to take heads, she never hunted for pleasure. Well, Kronos might have been an exception. This brute, she quickly decided, was bad for all Immortals. He set a poor example, and was quite without grace or style. She drew her blade and readied for battle. 

The other Immortal was the first to draw blood as the edge of his blade dipped low and caught her on the thigh. The move was unusual because it struck a non-vital area, and left an opening. She thought to herself that her opponent had a very poor tutor to allow him to make challenges this unready. Cassandra stepped forward to lunge into the brute's chest, and she felt a burning in her leg. As she stumbled her blade failed to properly skewer her foe. 

"Poison," she realized. He was able to give her a small scratch and nearly immobilized her. Cassandra parried a heavy set of blows, growing weaker after each one as the strong poison stole her strength. With little option or choice she used her Voice to try to regain an edge. Too late, though, for in his confusion of mind he lashed out again and cut her chest with a brutal swipe. It was enough to cut off her magic, and gave her another strong dose of the venom on his blade. 

As her eyes began to cloud, she felt the approach of another Immortal. Although it could have been an ally of the brute, she felt a glimmer of hope replace the desperate feeling of loss. She greatly surprised herself to find that she wished that the newcomer was Methos. Pain coursed through her and she was unable to come to an understanding of her desire that the new Immortal be him, of all people. Cassandra in her dying breath uttered his name. Her fading vision revealed her to be right. 

Methos stood beside the sporty red convertible, effortlessly allowing the light and shadow to play off his lean form in a very menacing way. After he had remembered the name of the store, he had come by hoping to meet Cassandra again. She wasn't around then, but feeling a little lost for anything else to do, Methos had walked the neighborhood. 

The area looked as though it had seen economic hard times as some of the neighboring stores were boarded up. The bookstore was a survivor, however, the same as Cassandra was. Maybe that was what had appealed to her. 

He had been on his third pass of the block when he felt the presence of an Immortal. Although he had been getting moody again during his walk, expectation had made him hurry to the storefront. Overcoming his own surprise at his elation, he had come to a stop as he heard the sounds of swords clashing. 

Mouth agape, he stood beside her car as he saw Cassandra in battle with another Immortal. The muscular Immortal gave her a vicious cut across the chest causing her to collapse. Cassandra was going to lose her head, Methos thought. He was just standing there and looking on. Part of his mind was fascinated at his inability to act. Then, as the other Immortal raised his sword, Methos ran toward him so that his Presence fully registered. 

Sword out, and leveled at the unknown foe, Methos was desperate to draw him away from Cassandra. Methos gave him a steely glare, and commanded him to stop. To cut off the anticipated objection of interference, Methos baited him by spreading his arms wide, and applied some logic. 

"Listen to me, you're fight with her is over. If you try for her head, you're sure to lose your own. Walk away." 

The brute met his gaze and grinned, "Not likely, Methos." 

Surprise betrayed Methos, he hadn't known Cassandra had let slip his name. 

The brute continued, now more sure of himself. "The legend is here before me. Your head is quite a trophy, and I have no intent to pass this up." 

Returning his sword to its ready position, Methos and his opponent began to circle each other. 

"You might realize that even if you did manage to take my head, you wouldn't be in much shape to defend yourself when she recovers." Methos tried as an argument. 

He hoped that his foe would see reason. Self-sacrifice wasn't high on Methos' list, but with the way things had been going, he could see this as a worthy cause. 

The brute was doing a bit of reasoning of his own. "She knew you, and you're here to fight to protect her. She must mean something to you." He stepped over her prone form, but saw on Methos' face no sign of interest. "After so many years, you're pretty good at bluffing. But I know the truth." 

Anger broke to the surface and Methos attacked in order to move this smirking ruffian away from Cassandra. The move was expected, a mistake he should not have made. Before he actually reached his foe, Methos felt a small pain in his shoulder. He didn't need to look to know it was a well-thrown knife with the handle of a coiled snake. 

Methos swung several times, all with force and determination. The brute was driven back by the fury of the ancient. Both men knew that deadly venom was coursing through Methos' blood. Every move was more difficult and more painful. The brute backed away, time being his advantage now. He expected that he'd able to recover from Methos' quickening before the woman's system was free of the toxin. 

Methos knew his foe now. The moment the knife's venom started burning his blood, he knew this was the Immortal who liked to call himself the Cobra. He was known to the Watchers for his dirty tricks and poisons. 

Still furious, the swords met with resounding blows, and sparks flew. The Cobra backed away from the onslaught, but never lost his arrogant grin. Suddenly, the brute realized that Methos had been driving him back against a wall. He pivoted and got a few steps away. Methos pulled the knife free from his shoulder and, in a single smooth motion, flung it at his foe. As the tiny blade sliced into his chest, Methos followed up by rushing at him. They impaled each other on their blades, and fell onto the hood of a red convertible. 

The Cobra stared wide-eyed at Methos, blood in his throat. Remarkably, Methos still had some fight left in him. "She's my woman." The ancient's voice was laced with a tone so sinister that Marty Glick lost his arrogant facade of the Cobra. Methos pulled himself off his foe's weapon, and staggered over him for just a moment. "I am Methos, I am Death!" 

With that, Marty Glick lost his head. The quickening which followed shattered the lights and glass of the car, and wasn't exactly good for the red paint either. 

Methos knew that he was only minutes away from death. The poison blurred his sight. As best he could, he dragged Cassandra's body to his Blazer and wrapped her in a tarp in the back, along with both her sword and his own. He wouldn't have time to clean up, the police would probably arrive soon. He was able to drive the Blazer about half a block and park in an alley before he slumped over and died. 

Methos awoke and saw flashing lights at the scene of the fight. He looked in the back, but wasn't surprised to see that Cassandra was still dead. Examining the hole in his sweater where the knife entered he found that the fabric had some traces of the venom amid the stain of blood. Much of it had wiped off before the blade cut his flesh. Cassandra had gotten more than a full dose from her sword wounds, and Marty Glick never had the chance to lace his sword again after running her through. Most of the police action was concentrated around the bookstore. Luck had been with him, and he hadn't been noticed. 

As casually as he could, Methos drove away. 

Cassandra returned to life with a powerful intake of breath as she bolted upright. The feeling of happiness that she was alive was quickly replaced by the realization that she wasn't someplace familiar. The winner of the battle had taken her back to his place continuing what seemed to her to be an eternal tradition of victorious men carrying home spoils of battle. Her head ached a little, some remnant poison working its way through her body, plus her ears rang that special way they did indicating an Immortal was here. 

She needed to know who had won. She surveyed the room and she heard the shower water running. Then she looked down at herself and saw that she was not in her cut and bloodied sundress. She instead wore a black T-shirt with the word Joe's in hot pink script, a perfect recreation of the neon sign that announced Duncan's Watcher's Blues bar. So Methos had won. 

The question of how his victory affected her life seemed too hard to grasp as the pain in her head began to throb viciously. The battle had worn Cassandra out and the poison hadn't helped the situation. Sleep seemed to be the best remedy at hand, so Cassandra lay back down on the pillow, closed her eyes and allowed the healing touch of sleep to come. 

As Methos was finishing his shower he had felt Cassandra's Immortal presence return. The bathroom door was locked and he had his sword with him. He brought it in because as Mac had said years ago, Methos didn't trust anybody. Actually it was more that he thought Cassandra might not be in the best of moods after being killed and poisoned. 

By the time Methos put his fingers on the lock to open the door he noticed something about Cassandra's presence change. It was softer than at first. He was then struck with overwhelming familiarity for the situation. Cassandra was sleeping. He didn't need to open the bathroom door to verify this. He remembered that when she slept in the Bronze Age her presence had resonated as a soft "purring" inside him and he had liked it then. With Cassandra asleep now, Methos didn't have to answer any questions or accusations she might throw at him. He was tired from the fight and the poisoning and wanted sleep. 

He opened the bathroom door and looked upon the sleeping Cassandra. It was fine that she was asleep on his bed but that put him in a quandary. Even though it was a king size bed where would he sleep? Though he wasn't the one who had killed her tonight, for Cassandra to wake up be in bed with Methos might be too much for her...and for him too. 

Silently cursing Mac for his obviously contagious notion of chivalry, Methos took one of the three pillows Cassandra wasn't using and placed it on the floor along with a blanket. 

Methos was almost enchanted by the sight of Cassandra asleep. He was seized with the desire to lie next to her and feel her warm, soft skin. He couldn't. Cassandra would probably react viciously and he couldn't explain the sudden intense desire that held him riveted to the floor staring at her. Instead he went to her and gave her a light kiss on the forehead after brushing away some strands of her hair. In Akkadian he whispered the words "sleep well" and then went to the floor and prepared his bed. 

Methos fluffed his pillow and then settled back down on it. He was awash in emotion. Quickenings always did that to him. But these emotions were regarding Cassandra. He felt torn as he did the last night they were together in the Bronze Age. At once it was if the thousands of years had never passed, but the weight of time wasn't that easily lifted. He wanted to show her affection this night but knew she would balk at his advances. He closed his eyes and thought that since he had fought and killed to save Cassandra's life tonight maybe he could take her off the long list of regrets he carried with him. "Maybe today we could put the past away..." Song words played through his mind. 

Tomorrow morning would be interesting. Cassandra wasn't in a cage, he wasn't sobbing on his knees, and MacLeod was a continent away. How they would react to each other was an unknown. He couldn't worry about that now, he needed to sleep. 

Cassandra awoke and heard Methos on the floor snoring loudly. He _still_ snores, was all she could think remembering endless nights where his loud snoring kept her up. As Cassandra sat up to shake off sleep Methos rolled over, coughed once and sat up, his head being level with the bed. They sleepily looked at each other trying to assess the situation. 

Methos thought that the well-worn pleasantry of "good morning" would break the sleepiness that held them. "Good Morning," he said. Cassandra silently nodded her head in agreement. Methos said almost exactly as he did in Bordeaux, "This is familiar." And laid back down. He wondered to himself, did the woman ever change? Or was she always the same and was it because of him? 

Cassandra hadn't meant to be silent to be rude but that question of how his victory affected her life had come to the surface in her. She was trying to figure out what to say to him. In the ancient world it had been easier, she knew when to speak to him and there were a limited number of topics. In Seacouver and Bordeaux she had spoken out of anger and hurt. This morning, ideally, she should speak to him out of gratitude. He saved her life last night. That thought alone paralyzed her vocal cords. Something resembling respect demanded that Cassandra address the situation. She couldn't act cavalier toward Methos, as if the battle never happened. But she needed time to think about what to say to him. Her thoughts and feelings were getting all jumbled. A hot shower would center her. 

"Good morning," she pleasantly said to Methos, who smiled to himself because those were the first words he remembered hearing from her that didn't carry an undertone of viciousness or anger. She realized that she was his "guest;" could that word be applied? She asked to shower, and he replied, "Of course." 

Cassandra dashed into the bathroom wanting to be alone with her thoughts. She stood as the hot water cascaded over her body and thought about Methos. She had so many questions regarding him. Memories from three years ago flashed in her mind. Was he the same man who, in Duncan's dojo, backed away from her and bolted out the doors when Duncan restrained her? Looking back, it seemed odd that he would run from his former slave, even if she was brandishing a sword. Why didn't he fight her? 

And a few hours after that encounter as she was moving around the abandoned power station, weaponless against Kronos, Methos knocked her out and threw her off a bridge. Why hadn't he just killed her? Or called Kronos to come down the steps and kill her? And what about what Kronos had said to her, "Methos never liked the idea of killing you." Never was a strong word for Immortals to use. And Kronos' sentence got her confused. Methos had killed her many times in the beginning, various and painful ways. But he had not ever threatened to take her head if she displeased him. The knowledge that a beheading was the way to truly kill an Immortal came years later, when she properly learned of her Immortality. 

In Bordeaux when Methos returned to her cage from being with Kronos, he'd walked up to Silas and had a different look on his face. When she heard the click of metal she almost thought Methos was going to kill her himself instead of Silas. But instead he denied his brotherhood and challenged his favorite brother. Why would he deny his brotherhood? 

Cassandra had used those instances to convince herself of the level of deviousness Methos was still capable of. But looked at in a different light it seemed as though he was trying to protect her. Could that be true? 

And last night he saved her from an almost certain death. No matter how much she might want to deny _that_ out of pride for her abilities, she couldn't. Maybe all she needed to say to him was thank you and if she said thank you coming out of the bathroom it would be up to him on how to take the pleasantry. Was it a thank you for using the shower or a thank you for saving her life? Cassandra hoped that Methos would take it for the former. 

She finished her shower and put on the shirt she had slept in. Only then did she realize she didn't have her sword with her. She felt almost as stupid as she did when she'd opened the door in Bordeaux without a sword to find three of the Horsemen ready to abduct her. 

While Cassandra was in the shower, Methos dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and looked over the room service menu. He decided what he wanted for breakfast and he would ask Cassandra what she wanted when she finished her shower. After what seemed a very long time, Cassandra emerged from the bathroom wearing only the T-shirt she'd slept in and billows of steam were escaping the bathroom. 

She looked in his direction and said, "Thank you." 

He nodded his head in response. 

"What would you like for breakfast? I want to order room service." He informed her. 

Cassandra realized that she was very hungry because she hadn't had dinner last night. "Two orders of French toast, a corn muffin, a glass of orange juice and hot tea," she replied briskly. 

Having his answer he called for room service, but not before raising his eyebrows at the size of her meal. Then he turned to Cassandra and said flatly, "We need to decide what we're going to do today." 

Cassandra looked a little puzzled and said, "What? We?" 

"Well for starters you have very little to wear. And though this is California you might prefer to be a bit more covered up. Next, your rental car is destroyed and part of a crime scene. If you don't want the police searching for you to ask questions about the headless body next to the car you'll go to them and act as if you don't know what happened. Now in order to do that you need an alibi, and I'm about the best you'll get on such short notice. We'll tell the police that we're old friends from college and we met last night on the beach near the bookstore. We decided to go back to my hotel and took my truck to cut down on air pollution instead of both of us driving. And if we need anything more than that as an answer, I think you and your magic voice can handle the rest," Methos stated, and then after a tiny pause, "Oh, and your sword is in my duffel bag." 

Cassandra didn't want to admit it, but three thousand years later Methos was still the Master Planner. Did any detail ever escape him? Well she had. She thought ironically. 

"Seems like you have it all figured out," Cassandra answered with sarcasm. 

Methos put the television on and flipped to the History Channel. The narrator was going on about ancient Rome. Cassandra just stood and looked at him as he settled back into a chair. He spoke, entirely to himself, about the mistakes and assumptions that were being broadcast. She had a mind to correct his viewpoints as well, but then thought better of it. He was having a good time. 

Just a few minutes later there was a knock on the door and breakfast appeared. Cassandra sat and began eating. Methos sat across from her and ate in silence. 

It was forty-eight hours later before the situation was such that they could part company easily. Cassandra had a new rental to replace the old one, and the police did not have their suspicions raised. As it turned out, they had a warrant out for the body they found, and weren't feeling much pressure to investigate. 

Cassandra walked along the seaside shops and was amazed at the incredible variety of items packed into each shop. The ancient world was destitute of material items compared to one of these shops. In the twentieth century she marveled at how many "things" were created mostly due to the invention of plastic. She wasn't fond of plastic; being ancient she preferred items made of natural materials. Just to get a chuckle she walked into one of the shops to see all the little knickknacks and trinkets just waiting for tourists to buy them. 

There were racks of T-shirts, racks of postcards, a whole corner full of plastic pool toys, shelves of sun lotion, pans full of seashells - more stuff than you could ever want or need in a lifetime. Cassandra noticed a rack full of key chains near the cash register. There were furry mice key chains, key chains with vulgar and sarcastic sentences on them, all sorts of key chains. Then Cassandra's attention focused on one in particular and she took it off the peg it was hung on. The clerk at the register was stereotypically Californian with his hair in dreads and a tie-dye shirt on. As Cassandra held the key chain in her hands a strange smile came to her face. 

The clerk at the register said with a surfer's style of speech, "If you had the real one in your hands you'd be, like, TOTALLY in charge!" 

"That's exactly what I was thinking." Cassandra said and with that she asked for a box, a piece of paper, and a pen and purchased the key chain. 

Methos got back to his hotel after having pizza and beer for dinner. He wanted to watch the History Channel as there was a show on ancient Egypt. When he got to his room he noticed that the light on the phone was blinking indicating he had a message at the front desk. He called down to the desk and was told there was a package for him. He put the phone down and headed to the front desk. 

"Hi, I'm Adam Pierson. You said there is a package here for me." Methos said to the clerk, a red headed girl with tons of freckles. 

"Yes, here it is." And she handed him the small box. 

"Do you know who left it?" He asked. 

"A woman, she didn't leave her name." 

"A tall brunette with green eyes?" Methos inquired. 

"Yes." The clerk answered. 

"Okay, thanks." Methos said and headed toward the elevator with the box. 

Well, at least it's not ticking, he thought as he headed toward his room. It was a rather small box and he heard a small muffled rattling sound when he shook it. Curiosity killed the cat. No, Cassandra wasn't into mail bombs, was she? 

Methos decided to just open the box. He moved the tissue paper aside and saw a small plastic world key chain. He picked it up and noticed there was a note underneath. It read: 

_You've always wanted the world in your hands. Your brother would be so jealous._

Methos felt – quite simply – stunned. Why would Cassandra give him this key chain? She was almost making a joke of his megalomaniac tendencies of his past. But it was a gesture, which seemed cute, as no hostility or vehement rage accompanied the note. And it was true, his brother would be jealous. It was the first "tangible gift" she'd ever given him. Submission and pleasurable sex didn't really count. 

Looking at the plastic world, Methos fell back in time to when he was all that made up Cassandra's world. He'd given her gifts then; first to punish, then to reward. By the time gift giving had moved to the rewarding stage, Cassandra must have put out of her mind that the necklaces, colored cloths and scented oils came from women he and his brothers had slaughtered just a few hours earlier. 

He wanted to give her something now. But what? Anything that would make her prettier, like jewelry, was out of the question. Too many memories... 

Methos decided to go for a walk to the shops of the town. Some appropriate gift might strike his fancy. After an hour of window shopping he hadn't found the right gift. He was about to start back to the hotel when he looked across the street and saw a flower shop. Now there's a gift had never given her, he thought. If there had been flowers in the desert and he had stopped to pick them, Kronos surely would have lopped off his head then and there. No questions asked. 

Methos entered the shop and nodded politely to the man behind the counter. The man seemed familiar to Methos. He'd known so many mortals that they all seemed to blur into familiarity with the multitudes of mortals now alive. The man behind the desk wore a circular pendant, which also seemed familiar but really how many circular pendants had he seen in his time? 

Methos stood and looked at the flowers behind the clear refrigerator door. What kind should he get Cassandra? The man came over to him and said, "Looking for something for your lady?" He asked. 

Methos was startled by the phrase "your lady," but decided to be enigmatic. 

"Sort of." 

"Well you have to get her a flower that suits her personality, her soul." 

Methos turned and looked at the man who seemed to be one of those old soul type mortals he might dare to have a conversation about the meaning of life. 

The man continued saying, "If she's soft and childlike get her irises. If she's a playful soul get her carnations...." The man trailed off. Methos looked at the flowers and said, "Roses." 

"A dozen, then?" 

"No. I think less is more. Just one." Methos replied. 

The beautiful red rose with its harsh protecting thorns and the similarity and matching symbolism with Cassandra were not lost on Methos. It was the perfect flower for her. 

"Harsh, yet - beautiful," the man with the circular pendant said, almost as a question. 

Methos wasn't sure whether the man was referring to the flower or the woman for whom the flower was intended. 

After a moments hesitation he replied softly, "Yes." 

Cassandra was waking from a dream when she sensed an Immortal outside her hotel door. She got her sword and looked through the peephole. It was Methos. She opened the door but still held her sword in a "mostly ready" position. She was repenting for the mistake she had made in Bordeaux. Her room was dark and she blinked as her eyes adjusted the bright hallway light. 

Methos stood there with his hands at his sides, and he was holding something in one of them. 

"Yes?" Cassandra said in a sleepy voice. 

Methos knew this was going to be hard. Almost an hour in the lobby trying to find the right words he still didn't have them. So he opted for motion and just handed Cassandra the rose. Then he turned as if to leave but instead he stopped and turned, speaking just a notch above a whisper. He had found the words. 

"You're quite a woman. Three thousand years old." 

He continued after a moment's pause. Cassandra looked at him and was tempted to give him a sarcastic reply like, "Duh." But she held her tongue. 

"You are one of a thousand regrets in my life." 

He paused again. Cassandra thought to herself: how could someone have regrets if he never had a heart? 

"I want you to know... that the 'sorry little slave' you said you weren't anymore in Bordeaux did a great job growing up. Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day." His gray- green eyes seemed clouded, and his face showed weariness. 

He felt as soul tired as he had after he told Mac about his days with the Horsemen. After he had taken two steps from the room, he heard Cassandra say, "Wait." 

Cassandra was breathing hard from the emotions inside her being in turmoil. Cassandra looked at Methos. He looked so damn _vulnerable._ Methos came back toward her room and then closed the door after Cassandra motioned her head to it. 

Starting very slowing and trying to keep her emotions in check, Cassandra began. She was desperate to speak, afraid something might happen to her if these words weren't released from her soul. She held onto a chair for support. 

"I....could live to be a million....and I would never understand you. I....thought I knew you, a long time ago." Pause. "All clichés aside about eyes being doorways to souls, a long time ago, I knew your eyes." 

Cassandra bit her lip and closed her eyes. She seemed in pain. Methos concluded she was. He stood and listened and leaned forward as if to go over to her, but held himself where he was. Having dredged up enough memories to continue with her analysis, Cassandra began again in the same hushed whisper in which he had spoken just moments previous. 

"Your eyes.....were a lot of things. They were angry and violent, cold and uncaring. Vindictive too." She looked directly at Methos and even straightened her shoulders slightly. 

"Occasionally they were contented and pleased." She licked her lips; her mouth had gone dry. When she had gotten enough spittle she spoke again, with more force. 

"But they weren't _sad._ " The last word was said with emphasis in an accusing tone. "And now they're mostly sad. I have to wonder ... how a person who I believe has no heart or conscience can be ... sad?" She remembered what she had seen in his face at the restaurant. 

Methos just stood and listened attentively. He was spellbound by Cassandra and needed to know what she had to say. 

She had taken a few breaths after the word sad and seemed on the brink of crying. But with a small laugh she started again. 

"Perspective....is a funny thing. Three years ago I wanted to kill you. I wanted death for myself for being Kronos' slave." She smiled and raised her eyebrow at Methos as if to make sure he was paying attention. He nodded minutely indicating he was. 

"I have almost drowned in self pity and let me tell you, it's not a fun way to go." 

Methos felt a quizzical look move onto his face. 

"I have been known...to bitch and moan about how horrible my life has been and I've blamed it on my early association with you." 

Methos still had the quizzical look. What was she trying to tell him? 

"But if I change my perspective I find that I, in fact, owe you a thank you." Cassandra had a smile on her face. 

The sincerity of her sentence astonished Methos. He couldn't speak but mouthed, "What?" 

"It's a simple realization. I am three thousand years old." Methos nodded. "Let me say it again. I am three _thousand_ years old." This time it was said more deliberately. "And it's because of you." Methos squinted his eyes. 

"I realized that you could have taken my head the _first_ day or _any_ day I displeased you. But you didn't. You didn't accept my challenge at Duncan's place three years ago. You threw me off a bridge when I was weaponless against Kronos. You blocked Silas' ax in Bordeaux. Just recently you saved me from a battle I was surely going to lose." 

Tears started to roll down Cassandra's face. She seemed almost surprised and said half to herself. "I didn't think I had these left." 

As she allowed the pent-up emotion to overtake her she said with exasperation and sadness, "But part of me still....still....hates you because I hurt so damn much!" 

What could Methos do, but allow her peace? Cassandra continued and she put her hand to her chest to emphasize her sentence and spoke in a small voice. "I...I don't belong and...it's because of you. It's not...because of the rape...or the punishments. You destroyed the group I was a part of. Then you said I was _yours_ and I had some semblance of belonging and then you let....." She trailed off so overcome by emotion she couldn't finish the sentence. But Methos understood and finished the sentence for her, the first words he had said in many moments: 

"...him take you." 

Cassandra nodded. 

Methos knew in Bordeaux that the issue between him and Cassandra had hinged on the night Kronos had taken her so long ago. That same instance was one of the problems between him and Kronos. "You thought I'd protect you! You forgot what I was!" he'd yelled at her in Bordeaux. Had she been so wrong to think she'd be protected? 

Cassandra placed herself in the chair and allowed herself to be emotional. She had nothing left to give. No anger, no thirst for vengeance. She was old and tired. 

"You have part of my soul," was the last of the accusations she threw at Methos. 

Methos looked as though he wanted to say something but stopped himself. He was thinking about their past: their last night in the Bronze Age, their time in Bordeaux, their time these past few days. He opened his mouth again but couldn't find the right words. He knew so many languages, and yet not one of them yielded the words he wanted to say. He thought about clichés saying that inaction has greater consequences than action, even violent action. 

Cassandra broke into his mental diatribe with a simple command: "Say it and mean it." 

Methos looked as though he had been smacked. He let that sentence hang in the air for what seemed an eternity to two already eternal creatures. It was a hint toward what he wanted to say. If he had the strength to say what he felt he'd be left with nothing, same as Cassandra. Maybe that would be okay; they would finally be on even ground. 

With a very deep breath Methos said slowly, as if the whole conversation had been their attempt to slow time itself, "You're my woman and....I love you." After he finished, he felt as though he would collapse from exhaustion. 

Cassandra let out a cry of anguish as if those few words were the toughest of her life to bear. But they weren't. She had waited her whole life for those words. 

Methos crossed over to Cassandra and she stood up and he hugged her. They held each other as if their Immortal lives depended on their sustained touch. Cassandra's tears were spent and she quietly held onto Methos. Methos leaned down and kissed her. "I love you," Cassandra murmured when the kiss was done. They had loved in the Bronze Age, and they loved now. 

Though it seemed like a blink of an eye to the two ancient Immortals it was actually more than an hour later that they arrived at a secluded beach to gaze at the stars. They counted in Akkadian the six shooting stars they saw. They were both at ease, for the first time in a long time. The ancient lovers were beckoned by the ocean, and in a few minutes they were walking in the cold water. California had idyllic weather that night. After walking the beach in silence, they lay down on the sand and drifted to sleep. 

An aging beachcomber made his way across the sand and stopped to look upon the couple. To an observer his smile would show pride and peace of mind as he reflected upon the pair. 

The air was still, but the waves continued to roll in. Methos turned and saw Cassandra standing beside him. She was dressed in the fine robes and jewelry he had given her ages ago, and he found himself in the ancient riding gear that had struck terror into the hearts of people millennia gone. 

He was dreaming, of course. But when his eyes met Cassandra's, he felt an odd magic. She smiled radiantly, understanding that they were sharing this dream. As they slept beside one another along the Pacific Coast, they stood together someplace prophetic. 

Ahead of them they saw a solitary figure walking toward them. As he neared Cassandra said, mostly to herself, "I think that's the man from the coffee shop." 

Methos had heard her and said, "Funny, I thought it was the man from the flower shop." They looked at each other a little puzzled. "Maybe it's the same man with two jobs." Methos offered with his sideways grin. 

As the man came closer Cassandra finally realized who the man was and grasped Methos' hand tight. The familiar necklace finally registered in her memory. She gasped and said quietly, "I know who it is." 

Methos was intrigued by the mystery and asked, "Who?" 

"It's ....my father. I know it is. I got that necklace for him. I traded herbs for it months before you came." 

Methos had always known Cassandra had magic. He was curious why her father would be here with them now. When they were two steps from the man they stopped and visually assessed each other. The man with the circular medallion opened his arms and Cassandra stepped forward and said, "Hijad?" 

"Hello, daughter," he said as Cassandra embraced him. 

"Why?" Cassandra began to ask. 

"I was worried you'd miss this meeting." 

Cassandra looked at him with an eager expression wanting more answers, knowing in her heart that this might be the last visit from her most cherished mentor. 

"You were always meant to be with Methos." The statement shocked her into silence. But her eyes, always expressive, asked a hundred questions. 

Hijad continued in the same slow manner as he did when he taught her the proper ways of healing. "If you check your histories, you'll see that you've come close to meeting, at different times." He smiled and held Cassandra's hand. His little girl had grown up well despite so many obstacles. 

"I was right, you did pass my simple skills." Cassandra smiled and remembered the times when she had been a healer. He could feel the magic in her hands. 

"But I was wrong when I told you that I would not always be with you. I had misread the stars. They had said that _you_ would be leaving. You were to be with Methos whether he was a traveling merchant, a temple priest, or a Horseman. It has been written in the stars." 

Cassandra finally understood why the pain had lasted three thousand years, why the cliché 'Time heals all wounds' never seemed to apply to her. She said quietly through tears, "So that's why it's always hurt." Hijad nodded. 

The memory of Methos slaying Hijad slammed into Methos' brain. Hijad sensed it and narrowed his eyes at Methos. Methos braced himself; it wasn't the first time the dead had come to him looking for answers. 

"My daughter...is not to be hurt ever again....she is to be safe always." 

Methos nodded and said, "Yes." 

He felt so uncomfortable in his ancient clothing, that he tore the fabric off of him. He cast the garb of murder and death into the waves, and it quickly sank from sight. 

Hijad smiled and said, "You are both still healing...always remember there is more to healing than herbs." 

Cassandra was processing everything that was happening. She remembered the dream where she and her father were in the desert and he told her she'd use much magic. "In another dream you said I'd use much magic to heal Methos. I haven't said any spells..." Cassandra finished with an inquiring look to her father. 

Hijad looked upon his daughter for a long time as the water lapped at their feet, before answering her. "You've used the greatest magic of all. Love." 

Cassandra leaned back and was hugged by Methos, who buried his head in her shoulder. Both were awake, but still distracted by the experience. Suddenly Cassandra said, "The answer is yes." 

Methos was confused and asked sincerely, "I'm sorry, did I miss the question?" 

"There's a song that I heard on the radio. It talked about facing down demons and there's a sentence that says, 'Maybe today we can put the past away.' And I think the answer is yes. Today, we can put the past away." 

Methos squeezed Cassandra in a hug and said, "That makes me happy." 

"Me too," Cassandra replied. 

And so the two ancient Immortals came to love each other again. Times, places and people change. And love is in the stars. 

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© 2000   
Please send comments to the author! 

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